Dawson Filter as He Relates to Gloves

A whirring sound, promptly followed by a regular sound, escaped from the metallic confines of the tumour; reverberating off of a nearby clock tower a short time later. The main reason why the audio duo were able to escape so easily was that the tumour was no longer making any effort to contain them; it was too busy time travelling.

Dawson Filter, the man responsible for this event in the tumour’s excuse for a life, saw his surroundings darken. He then saw himself. He shuddered at the pitiful fashion choices he used to make eight hours ago.

“Oh, we sure are in an ocean.” This self commented. Dawson cringed at its disgraceful arm flails. He desperately wanted ‘flailure’ to be a word, so that he could use it to sum up his life from ages 11-23.

“No, the ocean’s way better lit than this dump. Dead giveaway.” Lance replied. Dawson silently pledged to send Lance off before he had a chance to say more such things.

“It’s just midnight.” Dawson told himself. “Lighting has the tendency to really drop in quality about now. It’ll be the ocean in the morning. Every time-oh, a pun, because ‘time’ sounds like ‘time machine’, I’d better add that to my list-someone uses this time machine we arbitrarily call a tumour to visit 2016, he always pops up exactly four seconds after the new year begins, with the tumour at exactly this point in the Atlantic ocean. Here’s everyone who ever has and ever will come to 2016 in this tumour, from each time they have and will come.”

Sylvester Denny, Twelve-Anne Stradivari, and Babe Listowel trotted off, deciding they had no more to contribute to the conversation than J. Gordon Whitehead did to world merriment. They waved to themselves across the problems separating them from who they truly were; and pushed through these difficulties to who they were meant to be, finding true happiness at the end of the journey.

“Oh, Sylvester,” Twelve-Anne exclaimed, “I love you, I always have.”

“This is quite an agreeable plot point, then; given that I also love you. Let us now ask our future selves when the closest time to the Amazon Basin is, that we might discover the True Meaning of Feelings.” Sylvester promptly responded.

“Hello,” Babe Listowel said to himself, giddy to the point of (24, 53) upon seeing that in the future he gets to wear gloves, “would you kindly tell us the year that puts us closest to the Amazon Basin?”

“2114,” Babe Listowel2 answered, never slowing down or stopping to take a breath, “but-“

The members of Plywoodn’t Give Up On Our Dreams watched as their selves silently faded into their own timelines, forcing all speakers to abruptly end their sentences with hyphens rather that remotely good punctuation.

“Good riddance.” Dawson Filter muttered. He never cared about verbs when he was angry.

“Let us picnic at the top of our lungs until the Sun sets o’r the damp, damp, ocean!” Babe Listowel suggested, in order to lift Dawson’s spirit.

“Such a lovely idea, man!” Sylvester exclaimed, his words as real as ever.

“Ever so lovely, my dear.” Twelve-Anne concurred.

Babe Listowel reached behind Dawson’s left ear, pulling a wad of bills from behind it. Twelve-Anne clapped for Babe; prompting him to pull a vending machine from her ear. The picnicking portion of the expedition was ready, and the expeditioners were thoroughly convinced that they were ready for a picnic.

This would turn out to be far from the only mistake they would make that day.